


Assorted Innocents Shounen Juujigun Fics

by InvertedPhantasmagoria



Category: Innocents Shounen Juujigun | インノサン少年十字軍
Genre: Beating, Body Horror, Canon Trans Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Child Abuse, Child Abuse, Codependency, Crusades, Crushes, Eating Disorders, Eye Trauma, F/M, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Historical, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Jealousy, Medieval Medicine, Minor Violence, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Religion, Religious Fanaticism, Slavery, Surgery, Terminal Illnesses, Trans Female Character, Underage Rape/Non-con, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unrequited Love, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-04-30 14:37:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14499162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InvertedPhantasmagoria/pseuds/InvertedPhantasmagoria
Summary: Sooo, I have the feeling next to no one is going to look at this. OAO Basically, Innocents Shounen Juujigun is one of my special interests, and I'm dumping various fics centered around it here in the vague hope that someone interested in my other writing will read them. . .Anyway! This is just a pile of assorted works that don't belong anywhere else/can't stand alone, such as prompts from friends, short ideas, and other requests.





	1. Fic Prompts Set 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, anyone who decided to read a fic for a basically unheard of manga! :D 
> 
> Basically, I have a ridiculous amount of excitement over this series, and this is probably going to turn into a huge mess of assorted ideas, prompts, and other fun stuff. I take requests here, and if anyone actually leaves me one (pretty much any kind of prompt), I will probably die of happiness! 
> 
> This first chapter comes from words prompts from my friends, and is a mix of "missing scenes", wishful thinking, and outright Au content. 
> 
> My last note is that Christian is canonly a trans girl. However, under her circumstances, she does not admit this to herself, much less anyone else, for a _long_ time. Thus, Christian is referred to with male pronouns for now. In any fics where she has come to terms with her identity, the pronouns will be changed to reflect it. 
> 
> That is all! Please consider leaving a comment, as it will probably make my week! :D

  1. **Etienne and Christian– Support**



 

In a dark room, with books and pens and clutter strewn about in a mess no one had bothered to keep up with for months, Christian sat, copying texts from the bit of light that entered in the poorly sealed window.

His hand ached, the joints stiff and unpleasantly cramped from years of doing little else. It hurt, but no more than it usually did. 

Aside from the little coughs that wracked his chest every time he breathed in the dust that hovered in the room, Christian sat in silence, the only sound in the room the scratching of his pen against the paper. It was quiet, tedious work, but Christian was too absorbed in every little detail of the massive books to even  _ think  _ that what he was doing was boring. 

When the door to his work room suddenly creaked open, Christian nearly jumped out of his chair, twitching hard enough that he just barely avoided leaving an ugly smear of ink on the page.

“Ah, I’m sorry. Did I startle you, Christian?” Etienne. Small, soft, Etienne, with his massive brown eyes and gentle voice. 

“Please refrain from coming in so suddenly,” Christian replied, doing his best to keep his voice even. “Is there something you require?” Etienne smiled, and Christian’s heart did a painful twist in his chest. 

“That’s exactly it,” Etienne said, looking at Christian with sympathy. “I’m afraid you’ve been working yourself to death in here.”

“My father procured a large order for copied texts, is all. I’m busy, but far from near death. You have no need to worry yourself over an undertaking of this scale. I will be fine.” Turning back to his text, Christian dipped his pen into ink, forcing down the warm feeling of Etienne’s concern.

Etienne carefully moved a pile of discarded books, perching himself on a stool and looking at Christian with tender eyes. “I know. You’re definitely a hard worker. If it’s no trouble, could I bring you anything? I’d like to at least make things easier for you while you work.” 

“That’s not necessary,” was all Christian could say. 

The wind whistled through the barely insulated walls. Light flickered through the cracks. For one, quiet moment, there was no one but Christian and Etienne, isolated in the book-packed little room. 

Christian’s aching fingers twitched against the pen.

“A couple bread rolls and a waterskin, please. Father hasn’t exactly been letting me take breaks.” Christian didn’t mention how he’d intentionally not bothered to eat in a couple days. Christian didn’t mention how he’d been at peace for one, engrossed so deeply in his work. 

“Thank you,” Etienne replied, so gently Christian’s chest tightened again. “I’m glad you’re letting me help you.” He got to his feet. 

Etienne left the room, and Christian was alone again. It seemed, quieter, smaller, darker without him there, and Christian turned back to his work, if only for something to take his mind off of how alone he was now. 

Still, the support left a warm feeling lingering behind, like sunshine, like a breeze–

Like Etienne himself. 

 

  1. **Michael– Wicked**



 

Sinners, heretics, everything wrong with the world. People were inherently evil, inherently failing God with every move they made, and, of course, the only way to properly repent and bring oneself close to God once again was to devote every second of one’s life to Him.

These were the truths that Michael had spent a lifetime learning, and he would  **not** be swayed on them because of one foolish boy. 

Etienne, the so called “Chosen Child”, was as corrupt as any. By claiming that he was God’s chosen child, he was sinning in the worst degree, declaring the most foul kind of blasphemy for all to hear. 

And worst of all, the world believed him. 

But Michael knew better. Michael knew that only someone who had lived his life serving the Lord, someone like him, would ever be worthy. 

Michael, born into the service of God, had grown up learning everything that he needed to be righteous, teaching himself through discipline and strict routine how to please the Lord with his every word. 

He was pure. He was prepared. He was the one that God wanted.

Looking at Etienne, all hair as white as lambswool, all softness and brilliance and light, it made Michael sick. How dare this  _ wicked  _ imposter take on the appearance that one like Michael deserved. How dare he try to pretend like the Lord wanted him. It was disgusting, arrogant, and Michael had to resist choking the boy every time he heard the inane story. 

“Your voice is so lovely,” Etienne said, delight in his eyes, “God must truly be pleased with such beautiful praise.”

Michael couldn’t feel sicker. The praise of a blasphemous pretender was as good as an insult, and he would have rather spat in the sinner’s face then and there for acting like Michael would ever want it. 

“Thank you, o’ chosen one,” he said instead, feeling like the words were stinging nettles in his throat with every breath. 

Etienne smiled, happiness lighting up his face like a sunrise. 

Michael felt sick. 

“So, chosen one, what kinds of miracles will you perform at the next town?” Michael asked, with a sick hope to catch the sinner in a lie. 

“I know not. Whatever the Lord leads me to do, I will happily carry out. I act only as He wills me,” Etienne says. Michael wants to scream. How  _ dare  _ this reprehensible boy try to act like he’s the pure one. It’s disgusting. It’s revolting. It makes Michael wish he could see Etienne impaled. 

“How faithful,” Michael replies, “God is surely pleased by your devotion. Believing that the Lord is right in all things is the best way to live.”

Learned scripture running through his head, Michael holds back a thousand ways he could prove Etienne wrong. 

The adults, his father, want him to be the one to witness Etienne’s downfall. He alone will prove that the so-called Chosen Child is nothing but a hypocritical fake, reaffirm himself as the one loved by the Lord. 

And Michael can wait. 

 

  1. **Etienne and Michael– Wretched**



 

All along, Michael had thought that it was Etienne who was the pathetic one, lying about the Lord speaking to him for fame. 

But now, inches from Etienne, stake in his hands, mere seconds away from killing the filthy pretender once and for all, Michael had been stopped in his tracks, cold dread filling his stomach like lead. 

Robe rolled up over his arms, the bare, pale skin, had become– it was– there were  _ plants,  _ weeds and thorns and nettles erupting out of his skin as if he was fertile soil instead of a person. Blood dripped to the ground in soft drops, painfully loud in the silence between the two of them. 

Etienne turned around, and blue eyes pierced though Michael like blades. He looked shocked, but his gaze fell on the stake in Michael’s hands. 

“Michael,” was all he said. 

Something dark slowly sunk over his beautiful face, and panic rose in Michael’s chest like birds fluttering frantically. It occured to Michael, suddenly, much too late, that he’d  _ never  _ seen Etienne angry. 

The stake fell from Michael’s hands, his eyes flickered back and forth from Etienne’s cold gaze to the plants– the  _ plants growing out of his  _ **_skin._ **

He screamed before he could stop himself, falling backwards onto the ground. Thorns scraped at his arms, pulled at things under the skin, and Michael felt sick. Etienne stood there impassively, calm as Michael had ever seen him, looking down at him like he was the dirt beneath his feet. 

“N-No! Don’t come any closer, you heretic!” Michael yelped, fighting for cruel words that wouldn’t come. 

All Etienne did was stare, all he did was look at Michael with those eyes, bluer than the sky, than than the ocean, than anything Michael had ever seen, serene, still, and everything Michael couldn’t be. 

It hit Michael abruptly, jamming into his chest like a stake. 

_ He  _ was the wretched one here. 

Crawling in the dirt like a worm, screeching like an animal caught in a trap, weeds and thorns and everything rotten inside him pulled to the surface for all to see, it was Michael who was the one left pathetic. 

Terrified tears spilled over, burning trails down Michael’s cheeks, and he couldn’t move his arms to wipe them. 

“It’s alright,” Etienne said at last, kneeling beside Michael with the grace of an angel. “I’m sorry for scaring you. Will you let me fix this?” Etienne gestured to Michael’s arms, and Michael’s breath caught in his throat, choking him with the sense that he was being looked down on. 

Michael scrambled backwards, ignoring the stabbing pain in his mangled arms with every move. He couldn’t  _ breathe. _

One more glance at the weeds coming out of him, and Michael started screaming and couldn’t stop, pained, panicked howls tearing out of him like something was in his chest and wanted out.

Blood dripped down his arms, plants rustled with every little move, thorns scraped at his skin. Michael wailed like he was dying, tears flowing out of him, hot and messy down his face. 

What an ugly, despicable thing he was.  

 

  1. **Christian– Moonlight**



 

Joining the Children’s Crusade had been one of the strangest decisions of Christian’s life. He would have never thought that becoming a part of the Crusades would be a choice for him, never thought that going to war would be something a skinny, weak scribe would ever do. 

And yet, there he was, dressed in a uniform made of the finest cloth he’d ever touched, exhausted after a long day’s march. 

Christian’s feet ached, blistered and bruised as they were. He wasn’t used to long walks, and his chest had a slow, burning pain in it that got worse with every day of hard exercise and ceaseless walking. 

He really wasn’t meant for such tiring days, more used to sitting inside and going through books than working himself ragged on some endless campaign. Surrounded by idiots, too, Christian had become thoroughly sick of suffering through every long day on the Children’s Crusade. 

However, the reality of the situation was, Christian wouldn’t trade the long days of walking, the pain and exhaustion and frustration for anything, and all because of one person who was with him on the journey. 

Etienne. Gentle, perfect Etienne, who spent every day smiling at his friends, speaking praise to all who walked with him, and leading the Children’s Crusade with a kindness none could measure up to. Christian had been able to spend so many days closer to him than ever, walking alongside the most pure person the world had ever birthed, and that was worth it all. 

Sitting in the moonlight one late evening, a good ways away from where the rest of the boys were camping, Christian was enjoying a rare moment of peace. It was quiet, still, a far cry from the noise of children.

While he didn’t have any books but his one, precious one to read through these days, Christian was still happy. 

The moon hung full and silver in the sky, soft, blue flowers bloomed sparingly in the wide patch of grass, and a cool, summer breeze drifted over where the children slept. It was pretty, really, the kind of night that even one as accustomed to indoor life as Christian could appreciate. 

Allowing himself a single, forbidden thought, Christian wondered what it would be like to sit there with Etienne beside him, perhaps in some far day in the future when he was someone Etienne could love. 

A bird chirped far away, the smell of clean grass filled Christian’s lungs, and when he closed his eyes, he could picture Etienne there. 

Etienne would smile, new, blue eyes crinkling with happiness. Etienne would brush his calloused fingers against Christian’s thin hands. Etienne would look at him– no,  _ her  _ with all the love she’d ever dreamed of. 

Those were dangerous things to hope. 

Christian dismissed the thoughts quickly, shaking himself back to reality. Now was no time to wonder about a future that hadn’t yet come. 

One day, one day that would be real, but for now, Christian had to live the life that he still hated. Etienne would be there, Etienne would stay safe, and someday, Christian’s little dream would be more than a mere wish. 

 

  1. **Henri– Ice**



 

There was ice in his veins, freezing him solid where he stood. He was trembling, little shakes starting up in his fingers and making their way through him in cold little waves. 

Henri felt so small. The man in front of him was easily twice his size, all muscle and wide shoulders, while Henri was made of bone and bruised skin. Just standing there, he couldn’t help but be reminded of a mouse in a trap, unable to do anything but squirm and squeak helplessly. 

“Ah, Henri, I’m so glad you finally decided to join me,” Hugo said, low voice rumbling like something wild and provoked, despite the gentle words.

Lounging in a robe of rich cloth, Hugo leaned back in what could only be described as a throne. Henri, who had been so proud in his uniform mere months before, cowered in the rough fabric scraping at his skin as he trembled. Hugo smiled, and Henri’s blood ran colder. 

Hugo stood up, taking a few steps towards Henri, and Henri had to steel himself to avoid flinching back. He was a knight. He was brave. He wouldn’t show fear in front of someone so wicked. 

“Wh-Where’s Lillian?” Henri ventured at last, voice shaking. 

Hugo laughed. “That’s no concern of yours, dear boy. He betrayed you, didn’t he? You don’t need to think twice about him.”

The man who had seemed so warm and welcoming months ago now made Henri quake with terror down to his knees. Hugo was so big, his smile like a wild beast’s, and Henri couldn’t force himself to act. 

“Lillian is my friend!” Henri shouted, trying desperately to sound strong. Nicolas would hate him if he faltered here, if he failed the Children’s Crusade one more time. It would be better to die than live as a failure of a knight, Henri thought, and set his jaw in determination. 

But then Hugo took a step closer, then Hugo’s smile started to fade, and Henri’s breath caught in his chest like ice burning his lungs. 

Digging his fingers into the calloused, scabbed skin of his hands, Henri forced himself to meet Hugo’s gaze, forced himself not to look away. He had a sword, yes, but could he really beat a grown knight?

“He’s my friend!” Henri said again, quieter. “I won’t leave without him. I’m taking Lillian back to his brother!” 

Hugo closed the distance between them. Hugo lowered his voice like he was talking to a child. Hugo put his hand on Henri’s shoulder. 

“Alright, little knight. But you’ll be trading your life for his.”

Cold ran through Henri like lightning, freezing him solid in an instant. There was ice choking him, there was something squeezing at his lungs. He was a  _ knight,  _ he couldn’t give up. But he was so scared, fighting back tears with every ragged breath that he wheezed. 

“I want a. . . companion, you see, and you’d be the better choice than him,” Hugo continued, and Henri never thought that he could be lying. 

Nicolas wouldn’t hate him anymore if Lillian came back safe. 

 

  1. **Guillaume and Pierre– Dare**



 

“Hah! What pathetic peasants!” Guillaume laughed, leaning back against the wooden wall behind him and cackling. Pierre soon joined in, nasally, high pitched laugh irritating even to his friend. 

The two were sitting together in the middle of the village, playing a game with rocks that Guillaume had invented last week

Of course, they were also making fun of anyone who passed, laughing at how poor the people in their little village were, calling out insults at anyone who looked lowly enough to be a target. It was easy for two who stood on top to look down on those below them. 

“Guillaume, look at that man! He’s trying so hard to haul, what, firewood or something! It’s like he doesn’t even have a servant to do it for him!” Pierre snickered, pointing obviously at the new target. 

Guillaume claimed four of Pierre’s rocks and looked up, quickly joining in with the insults. “Amazing. I can’t believe such  _ peasants  _ walk among us.”

Then, suddenly, an idea hit Guillaume. 

“Hey, I dare you to go knock his wood off of his back!” Guillaume grinned, weasley features scrunching up as he smirked. “It’ll be hilarious! Hell have to pick it all up in front of everyone!”

Pierre’s eyes went wide, and he leaned forward, smudging the lines the two of them had drawn in the dirt for their game. “But, what if he gets angry?” No genuine concern, of course, just selfish worry of what kind of trouble he could get in if the news made it back to his father. 

“Don’t worry about that!” Guillaume scolded, smacking Pierre on the head lightly. “We’re the sons of nobles; no one will dare tell! We’re as good as invincible in this town, and even if our fathers did hear about it, they’d agree with us for putting a filthy peasant in his place.”

Pierre nodded, rubbing at the spot on his head where Guillaume had whacked him. “B-But, I don’t wanna get beat if it  _ does  _ get back to him. . .”

“Oh come on! Quit being such a baby or I’ll do it myself! You’re useless _ ,  _ you hear that,  _ useless! _ ” Guillaume snapped, waving hands. “Hurry up and do it, or he’s going to get too far away, got it?”

“Fine. . .” Giving in, Pierre got up and slowly made his way to up behind the man. 

There weren’t very many people in the town square that day, but the ones that were there looked at the boy with barely concealed disgust as he readied himself to do the wicked dare. 

All at once, Pierre swung both hands, knocking the wood of the man’s back with a clatter. The man whirled around with a vicious, shocked scowl, and Pierre quickly scurried back to Guillaume, nervousness crossing his face as the man’s expression morphed to anger. 

“You little brats!” he yelled, “Your fathers will be hearing about this!”

All Guillaume did was stand up with a wicked smirk, dusting off his robes. “Good luck.  _ We’re  _ in charge here, and you’ll just get in trouble for forgetting your place!” 

“Yeah!” Pierre chimed in proudly, “You can’t touch us!”

 

  1. **Henri– Fragile**



 

Always the smallest of the kids his age, always a head shorter, always thinner and more frail, Henri couldn’t hate the body he’d been given more. 

He didn’t look like a knight. He barely looked like a boy. All he was was thin and small and fragile, and he couldn’t stand it. The other boys looked at him like he was weak, like he was nothing but a crybaby, and the sheer sense of  _ failure  _ that choked him with every glare was starting to hurt. 

Even now, with a sword given to him by the Knights Templar, Henri had the sick feeling that the other kids were looking down on him. He could practically feel the disgusted looks whenever he stood beside Nicolas.

He was as small as the eight year olds, weaker than most of the lambs, and in no way cut out for his place as Vice Commander. 

So Henri set himself to training, desperate to do something to make himself a little bit better, a little bit less pathetic. He swung a training sword until his hands were a mess of blisters and blood. He walked until his feet were bruised black and blue and every joint burned as he moved. He fought to become someone that could be as brave and strong as his friends. 

And if that meant training by himself, practicing long into the night to catch up to Nicolas and Luc, than that was just how it had to be. If it meant biting into his mouth until he bled to keep from crying, it was necessary. 

They were knights now. His family was counting on him to be brave. Even God had place his faith in Henri to help reclaim the Holy Land. 

He couldn’t be fragile anymore. 

“Please don’t strain yourself,” Etienne would say, looking at Henri with worry in his eyes, and Henri had to choke down the feeling that he was doing something wrong. 

“You’re already fine. You’re puny, but pretty brave,” Nicolas would comment, offhandedly making everything  _ worse.  _

“I don’t want to lose the cute little crybaby of our group, y’know?” Luc would laugh, and Henri’s stomach would burn with humiliation, fill with an envious rage that someone so strong thought he could understand. 

They’d never get it. None of his friends knew what it was like to be  **useless** , to be the smallest and the weakest and the one who couldn’t do anything but cry. Henri couldn’t stop, not until he was better and stronger and good enough to be a true member of the Children’s Crusade. 

He made too many mistakes already, had far too many times when he didn’t do enough to stand up for himself, didn’t act like a knight should.

It didn’t matter that the stress was making his whole being hurt. It didn’t matter than holding back tears was leaving a sick, dark feeling in the pit of his stomach more every time. It didn’t matter that his parents had assured him that even a crybaby could do great things.  

Etienne was counting on him, and Henri wasn’t going to fail. 

 

  1. **Remy– Disgust**



 

Ever since the first little flaws in his skin, the moment his parents realized that there was something wrong with their child, Remy had had a sinking feeling in his chest that hadn’t gone away. 

When the town doctor determined that it was leprosy, that feeling had only gotten worse, something dark and cold making a home in between his lungs, weighing him down. It couldn’t happen, he thought, the prettiest, sweetest boy in the village couldn’t die an outcast. 

But it had. His skin had gotten worse, wounds opening up than Remy could only barely feel. He’d started to feel less and less, a tingling sensation taking the place of any pain in his body. Even the worst parts of his skin barely felt like anything, aches and stings fading into numbness as what was once pale and smooth became bumpy and red. 

They’d started making him wear the bells, then, cover himself up and not risk spreading his foul illness to anyone else. 

It was at that point that it had really sunk in, that Remy had truly realized; he was done for. There was no cure for the disease that ate away at flesh little by little, until parts fell off and there was nothing left. 

So he’d gotten used to it. 

When his family wasn’t allowed to visit him anymore, could only sneak in little meetings when no one was near, Remy sat by himself for days at a time. When Etienne was the only person in the village who didn’t look at him with repulsion, Remy smiled while he was there. 

Sometimes, it was easy to forget what life had ever been like before the disease, back before he wasn’t forced to sleep on the streets. 

Remy had come to a point where he felt nothing but disgust for himself. He was sick. He was something to be avoided. He was repulsive, ugly, disgusting, and everyone seemed to feel the same. 

It was getting hard to look at himself. 

His skin was a mess; he couldn’t feel his own hands against the flesh, and every missing touch made Remy sicker. 

In the back of his mind, Remy knew he was going to die. It was a hard thing for a young boy to think about, of course, but the thought was still there, hovering like a dark cloud that Remy couldn’t escape.

All he had to do was sit by himself; there was no work available for a leper, and his parents still had to struggle to keep him fed. Remy couldn’t imagine feeling any more useless, any more like his very existence was nothing but a burden on the people he loved. 

Remembering soft curls, Remy ran one hand through dry, lank hair. He couldn’t quite feel the strands anymore, but it was still a small comfort. 

If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine that it was his mother’s touch, back before she’d been forbidden from sitting with him. If he sat still and listened to only his own breathing, he could imagine that he was back at home, curled up in the little one room house. 

Even though those days were long over now. 

 

  1. **Nicolas– Humiliate**



 

The son of a pig farmer. Lost his mother shortly after he was born. Orphaned when his father never came back from the Crusades. 

Nicolas had heard far too many things describing how he would never be enough, how no amount of work he did would ever pay off. He was born into a poor situation, and that was the end of it. He wasn’t a noble, or the son of a knight, so nothing he did would ever be enough. 

He was stuck in a run down little village, far away from knights and battle and everything he dreamed of; everything that could make him useful. There was nothing for him where he was now. 

(Deep down, Nicolas knew that he was nothing more than the son of a pig farmer, that his father had never been anything special.)

So Nicolas hoped. 

He prayed that he’d leave his village, find a way to become one of the grand Knights Templar, become a proud knight who would slay pagans everywhere he fought, all in the name of the Lord. 

It was a weak dream, but it was all Nicolas had, all he could possibly look forward to after endless days of scooping pig shit and wading ankle deep in mud and waste, the mockery of the town. He had nothing else to hope for, nothing more in his life than dying in the same rotten little village he’d grown up in, been stuck in for twelve long years. 

“Nicolas! Get back to work! I don’t waste my money on some damn lazy brat,” his uncle shouted, voice rough and angry. 

It had been a second break, just to wipe the sweat off his face and catch his breath, and Nicolas’ stomach burned with rage as the old man ordered him around like he was some kind of slave. 

But Nicolas had little choice but to obey; either that or get beaten again, so he swallowed the bitter feeling of hate and returned to scooping scraps and trash into the pigs’ trough, all the while resenting every second of the filthy job that he’d been forced into by birth. 

Sometimes, it seemed as if his uncle existed to humiliate him, if the stinging, burning stripes on his back were any sign. 

“Stupid old man. . .” Nicolas muttered to himself, just low enough that he knew there was no chance of his uncle overhearing. “You’ll see. One day, I’ll be a knight, and you’ll all see that you were wrong about me.”

It was a stupid, childish hope, but Nicolas couldn’t let go. 

All he had was the dream of being something more. The only thing that got him through beatings and ridicule and the mockery of every kid and adult in town was the dream that he could someday be great. Ever since he and Etienne had seen the knights ride through, there was no other choice. 

So Nicolas would keep hoping. No matter how much he was made fun of, no matter how stupid the adults would think he was.

Nicolas would never give up.  

 

  1. **Etienne and Christian– Blushing**



 

They were alone. The lambs were off at their camp, Nicolas and the other apostles were keeping an eye on everyone, and Christian and Etienne finally had the chance to go for a walk alone. 

Of course, Christian’s chest was aching, heart throbbing heavy in his chest like it was trying to choke him where he stood. 

Etienne was radiant, of course, white hair practically glowing in the evening light, fair features a perfect picture of serenity. Closing his eyes, Etienne breathed in deep, taking in the cool air of dusk, and Christian stared helplessly while his eyes were closed.

How one person could be so beautiful, Christian would never know 

“Isn’t it nice to have a break?” Etienne said, turning towards Christian with a soft smile, and Christian’s throat strangled every word in him. 

“Y-Yes. It’s pleasant to be out in the evening hours. Of course, taking in the new scenery is a treat as well.” Their feet tapped quietly against the dirt road on the outskirts of town, and wind whistled through the trees. It was still, save for the breeze, and only insects in the distance narrated the moment between the two of them. 

“It is. The Lord has blessed us with such a peaceful journey; I am nothing but grateful,” Etienne said softly, and the gentle tone of his voice had Christian shivering. The boy truly was an angel in the flesh. 

A moment passed, silence falling like fog. Christian, too, took a deep breath in, trying to get his breathing to even out and force himself to relax.

Etienne stopped, suddenly, and his calloused, rough fingers slid into Christian’s hand, gently pulling it towards his chest. 

“Thank you for standing beside me, Christian,” he said, and Christian’s breath froze in his chest, catching on every painful thing inside of him. “You’re a blessing in my life, and I’m so glad God has brought us here.”

Christian’s chest is closing up. He wants to scream, or maybe cry. “What brings this on?” he asks instead, voice distant to his own ears. 

“Nothing in particular,” Etienne smiles, “I’m just telling the truth. Who knows how many more chances we’ll have to talk like this.” The sun is setting. Red light is illuminating Etienne’s face like a halo. He looks angelic, divine, and for once, Christian feels close to believing in a God. 

The moment passes. They keep walking. 

Forced to remind himself that it’s much too soon for Etienne to see him that way, Christian pinches at the skin of his hands, scratching red lines in the thin skin. It’s not like that. It’s not like that yet. 

A day will come when Etienne will be able to see him as someone worthy of that kind of love, Christian reminds himself. It’s not there yet, but he’ll only have to wait a little while longer. It won’t be so painful, so long as Etienne continues to consider him a precious friend. 

So for now, Christian pretends like nothing has changed. He keeps walking with Etienne, keeps talking about the same silly things. 

As if either of them can’t see how he’s blushing. 


	2. badthingshappenbingo prompt: Forgetting to Eat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Innocents content that no one asked for! :D This time, it's for a whump fic challenge that I've taken on~ Warnings for this chapter include disordered eating, vomiting, slight gender dysphoria, and implied self harm, so read carefully!

Christian’s stomach hurt. This wasn’t a new feeling, but the aching, clawing sense of not having anything in him was all too unpleasant. 

He’d spent the past five days immersed in his work, transcripting a set of Italian manuscripts for his father to give to a client. It was tedious, immersive work, and before Christian knew it, days had passed without him sitting down for a real meal in between hours of careful writing. 

By now, his stomach felt like it was eating a hole in him, hunger churning viciously with intent to make Christian pay attention. He was vaguely lightheaded, and a weak, sick feeling hung over him like a shroud.

Unfortunately, this wasn’t unfamiliar, and Christian soon resigned himself to the fact that he wouldn’t be getting any relief until he finished. 

His fingers hurt almost worse than his stomach, though, aches and pains settling in the joints like it always did when the weather was cold and wet. It was getting hard to write smoothly, and when his fingers started to shake too badly to make a steady line, Christian decided that it was time to get something  _ real  _ to eat, lest it impact the quality of his work. 

Standing hurt almost as badly, hips aching in protest from recent growing pains, but Christian ignored it. That much hurt was normal, the result of sitting in place for too long, and he could live with it. 

Breathing shallowly, trying not to cough around the dust filling his insides, Christian made his way outside. His father hadn’t exactly left any fresh food in the home while he was away on business, and Christian was expected to manage a small pile of money for duration of the trip. 

The weather outside was cold and rainy, dark skies dripping a steady drizzle of frigid water onto the village below. 

Christian shivered under his cloak, clutching his arms tensely. He hated weather like this, uncomfortable and miserable as it was for everyone, and it was only because he was starting to feel close to passing out that he forced himself to even go outside in such unpleasant conditions. 

He bought a bit of fruit and some dark bread from a neighbor who was used to sharing, and only barely resisted the urge to shove the food into his mouth right away. 

Somehow, he didn’t want to eat right away. . . if at all. Perhaps it was some kind of self-punishment for not working properly. 

(Perhaps it was that the mere thought of a man’s figure taking over his body made him feel nauseous to his core; as long as he stayed thin, he could–, could maybe pass for something close to a  _ girl. _ )

So Christian took the food home, sat back down at his work desk, and tried not to think about how he swayed unsteadily even while sitting still. 

The food was there. He could eat it any time he wanted to. It wouldn’t hurt to finish one more page before eating, would it? It was just being dutiful not to want to waste any more time on silly, personal matters. 

Even Christian couldn’t convince himself that  _ hunger  _ was a “personal matter”. That was stupid. He was putting it off and he knew it. 

And yet, he dipped his quill back in the ink, traced another intricate letter onto the parchment, and kept working. 

Before he knew it, Christian had gotten absorbed in his work, forgotten all about the little bag of food on the table next to him. Writing, even copying, was entrancing, and watching the ink bleed out onto the coarse paper soon had Christian’s mind in places other than his body’s well-being.

The only thing that made him look up again was a sudden growl from his stomach, loud enough to snap his attention away from his work.

The skies outside were dark, even more so than when Christian had gone outside before, and the rain was coming down in a steady pour. Christian shivered in his cloak, which he’d forgotten to take off, and glanced over at the bag that he’d left completely ignored. 

Waiting until he got home had turned into waiting until evening, and Christian remembered, with a vague sense of shame, that this meant he  _ still  _ hadn’t eaten anything. It had been  _ days  _ since he’d had anything substantial. 

Etienne would know. 

He always knew when Christian didn’t take care of himself properly, somehow, and that disappointed look in his brown eyes when he realized was enough to make Christian sicker than not eating ever could. 

So, he forced himself to grab the bag, carefully unwrap the fruit and bread, tear off a chunk of bread, and take a bite. 

The bread was like dirt on his tongue, dry and foul tasting, and even though Christian knew rationally that there was nothing wrong with the food, he choked, spitting the bread out onto the table in front of him, retching miserably as his stomach churned. 

A bit of fruit went down just as badly, sickeningly sweet and chewy in all the wrong ways, and as soon as he forced himself to swallow, he was lurching forwards, heaving out little but bile onto the floor. 

There was an awful taste on his tongue, sour and bitter and sharp as acid, and Christian fought back another painful heave. 

What was wrong with him? No normal person  _ wouldn’t  _ want to eat after days of practically starving, and yet, here he was, struggling to keep down even a small meal. It was just like him to be so  _ difficult,  _ Christian thought bitterly, scrubbing his wrist across his mouth to wipe it off. 

It couldn’t hurt to write a little more, once he cleaned up, to try eating again later, once his stomach had settled. 

So Christian cleaned up his mess, wiping vomit and bile off the floor with an old cloth, praying that none had gotten on anything important. He felt dizzy, lightheaded, and his stomach was an empty point of pain. 

And yet, the only thing that mattered to him was what Etienne would think. 


	3. badthingshappenbingo prompt: Forced to Watch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the next prompt for badthingshappenbingo, and there's a _huge_ warning for this one. While it's pretty much what happened in Innocents in canon, this chapter contains rape of underage teenagers, minor violence, and general nastiness. _Please_ don't read if this will upset you. 
> 
> Anyway, this mini-fic is based on something I plan to write in the near future! It's an Au where instead of Guillaume, Pierre, Lillian, and Henri getting taken by Hugo, Nicolas, Guy, Christian, and Michael wind up in the situation instead. This doesn't exactly line up with what I'm planning for that fic, but it's kind of a warm up for it??? so hopefully I'll get to that fic soon enough :D

It was for Etienne, Nicolas reminded himself, as Hugo pulled Guy over to him, huge hand wrapping all the way around the boy’s arm. 

They’d all agreed to this. Hugo had  _ promised  _ that if they complied, Etienne would be forgiven by the church. They’d all chosen to sacrifice themselves to save him, surrender themselves to Hugo’s cruel intentions, and even though it was painful, they all knew what was coming. 

In the massive, dark room of Hugo’s ill-gained castle, lit only by a few flickering candles, Christian and Nicolas kneeled side by side, waiting for whatever Hugo would have in store for them. 

Christian sat almost primly, staring straight ahead with an expression of sheer determination. He wasn’t shaking a bit, Nicolas noted. 

Guy had already been pulled onto the bed by Hugo, dark, scarred skin revealed as the man tore away his robes. His expression was blank, uncaring, like Hugo couldn’t do a thing to affect him. 

Nicolas was so jealous of those two he could hardly  _ breathe.  _

He was shaking, swallowing heavy fear, so afraid that he could feel it in his limbs, cold working its way through all of him in waves. 

Hugo pulled off the last of Guy’s clothes, forced him down onto the bed, and everything in Nicolas told him to  _ fight.  _ Hugo murmured something about how pretty Guy looked when he wasn’t playing tough, and Nicolas’ hands itched for his sword. This wasn’t fair. Guy was the strongest person he knew, and he was still being forced to subject himself to this. 

But Guy didn’t say a thing, didn’t respond. For all his strength, he didn’t fight back. He allowed himself to be moved and pushed around, and only a faint groan escaped him when–, when–, 

Nicolas closed his eyes, unable to watch. Guy was taking it with more dignity than Nicolas could imagine, even as blood began to slick his thighs, but Nicolas couldn’t stand to see his friend forced to suffer. He couldn’t face the empty, resigned look in Guy’s visible eye even as he was violated. 

It lasted for far too long; Hugo’s sickening noises, and the occasional pained sound from Guy. 

When Nicolas finally couldn’t help but look up, his stomach lurched dangerously. There was blood all over Guy’s thighs, seeping into the blankets, and Hugo was grinning like he’d won a battle, hair falling in his face as he moved. Nicolas tasted bile in his mouth. 

Guy looked so  _ small  _ next to Hugo, and even though Nicolas knew well how strong the other boy was, it suddenly seemed like he was nothing more than a child, overwhelmed by an adult twice his size. 

But eventually, Hugo pulled away, ordering Christian to come to him next. Guy was left easing himself off the bed, shaky limbs barely holding. 

Nicolas’ hands were trembling so badly he could see them, and his body felt weak, like he was sick and close to collapse. Christian stood, already shrugging off his robes, and Nicolas wanted to scream.  _ He would be next.  _ He wasn’t going to get out of this without being violated. 

With more dignity than Nicolas could imagine, Christian laid down on the bed in front of Hugo. His pale skin practically glowed in the dim light, and his dark hair formed a defensive curtain in front of his face. 

Hugo  _ crooned  _ something, voice low and raspy, and all Nicolas caught was that Christian had always been the pretty one, always been his favorite. 

But Christian didn’t respond. He laid there like a corpse, pointedly looking away from Hugo as the older man leaned over him. Like Guy, he was showing no reaction; more disgusted than afraid. 

Nicolas seethed with sick, unfair jealousy. 

How could they not be afraid? He felt like he was going to be sick on the floor where he sat, and yet, Guy and Christian acted like they were unaffected by it all, nothing more than vaguely displeased. 

Neither of them showed any fear, any terror, and even as Hugo leaned closer to Christian, the other boy kept a bored expression etched on his face. 

Christian whimpered at the worst part, a soft, pained noise slipping out of him as his face scrunched up in pain, but he didn’t react beyond that. He kept his hands limp at his sides, bit his lip, and withstood it. 

He was even smaller than Guy, Nicolas noted, much slimmer and smaller than the one who was used to hard, physical labor. 

Hugo was probably three time his size, all muscle where Christian was little more than skin and bone, dwarfing the younger boy with his mass. Nicolas could only imagine how much pain Christian was in through it all. 

He’d find out soon enough, Nicolas thought with horror. 

There was fresh blood on the blankets, and Christian’s pale thighs were covered in red. His face looked pained, but unafraid, even as Hugo whispered sick things in his ear, leaning over him like a cage. 

Hugo took his time, moving slowly, murmuring commentary to Christian all the while, telling him how pretty he was in low tones. 

Somehow, Christian endured it with little more than a bite to his lip, blood running down his chin as he fought not to cry out. Something inside Nicolas started to snap as he watched, anger spiking within him. 

For their sake, he couldn’t be afraid. 

Guy and Christian had faced this with bravery, willing to subject themselves to pain in order to protect Etienne, and Nicolas was  _ determined  _ to be no different. He’d take this, he’d endure this, he’d do anything to see Etienne smiling and safe once again. 

He was strong. He was brave. He’d wanted to be a knight for longer than he could remember, and if  _ this  _ was what it meant to be brave, Nicolas would face it with every bit of bravery that the others had. 

He  _ refused  _ to be the weak one, to cower in fear any longer. 

_ Hugo wouldn’t win.  _


	4. badthingshappenbingo prompt: Rope Burns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another badthingshappenbingo prompt! This one is also a sort of warm up for a longer fic I'm planning, and warnings this time around include slavery, child abuse, mild blood, and general Innocents creepiness and dark themes. Poor, deluded Michael doesn't exactly realize what's going on, but anyone who has read the manga will get the extra bit of misery here. . . 
> 
> Thank ya'll for reading <3

The ship had sailed with the boys of the Holy Children’s Crusade on board. Etienne was dead, and Michael, the true chosen child, had won. 

Ocean air lifted Michael’s hair, combing through the strands and whipping them around his face. The gentle motions of the ship were peaceful, swaying, and as Michael watched the shoreline grow smaller and smaller, there was a rising feeling of something like sadness filling him. 

Chances were, he’d never see his father again. Even though his Crusade would surely be victorious, making it back to France seemed unlikely, especially within the time that his father would still be living. 

The last of the land vanished on the horizon, and Michael choked down a feeling of loneliness and regret. 

(He forced himself to ignore the childish wish of staying  _ home. _ )

The other boys were chatting amongst themselves, soft voices filling the air. Most of them were still in awe of what a chosen child was capable of, Michael knew, so he allowed it, quelling his irritation at their immaturity. 

One of the ship’s workers approached him moments later, towering over Michael’s tiny frame in a way that the men in France never had. 

“Chosen Child, if you would come with me, I’ll show you to where you will be staying. We have prepared a  _ special  _ room for you.” There was something  _ off  _ about the man’s tone, something low and odd. 

“Thank you,” Michael replied politely, forcing his voice to be kind,” but I’d prefer to stay out here for a bit. The sea air is pleasant.”

The man’s face did something funny, some unreadable expression flitting across his eyes for a moment, and Michael finally took notice. A bird cried somewhere in the distance, the smell of saltwater filled the air, and it occurred to Michael, suddenly, that there was no going back to France. 

Behind them, the rest of the boys had gone silent. 

“Chosen Child, I would prefer that you come with me,” the man said, and Michael swallowed heavily, forcing himself to meet his eyes. 

He was starting to feel that something was wrong, and, taking a small step backwards, Michael repeated that he wanted to stay on the deck, this time allowing a bit of irritation to seep into his tone. 

The man stepped forwards, and Michael flinched on instinct, fury filling him that he was being intimidated. Just as he was about to open his mouth and snap something about being left alone, though, the man  _ grabbed  _ him by the shoulder with enough force to bruise, twisting him around before Michael had time to react, wrenching his arms behind his back. 

There was rope around his wrists in an instant, and Michael shrieked, twisting viciously in the man’s grip, panic filling him in an instant. 

“Don’t fight, now,” the man said, and Michael finally,  _ finally  _ realized what was so wrong, “It’ll be easier on you if you behave. You won’t have to get hurt that way, you see? Won’t that be better?”

Screeching, Michael struggled with everything he had, but the rope was being tied tight, and he couldn’t move his arms enough to  _ fight back.  _ This wasn’t right. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. Whatever was going on, this wasn’t what his father had sent him to this ship for. 

The rope burned at his wrists, digging into skin with every inch Michael fought. He could feel his skin going hot, raw, as rough cord dug in deep. 

Moving him as easily as a child, the man steered Michael back towards the other boys. They too were being cornered and bound by men on the ship, sniffling childishly and whimpering as the men herded them into groups. None of them tried to resist, and Michael  _ seethed.  _

When he slowed down, the man yanked at the ropes holding Michael’s wrists, tugging his arms around at a painful angle behind his back, and forcing the rope to twist around his skin in rough, sharp motions. 

Michael bit his lip and forced himself to stay strong. 

“What do you think you’re doing to me,” he hissed. “You’ll be punished for this. The Lord will not stand for his Chosen Child being mistreated.”

The man laughed. The ropes behind Michael’s back were pulled again forcing him down towards the deck. “You don’t have any idea what’s happening, do you, boy? Don’t worry, you’ll figure it out soon enough.”

Michael was hauled down the deck, past groups of boys being restrained, crying and whining as they were tied and herded up. The smell of salt around him had gone sour, and Michael wished that he could  _ move  _ enough to fight back, anything but be hauled around like some kind of slave. 

The connection snapped in Michael’s mind like lightning. 

Screaming again, Michael renewed his thrashing two-fold, writhing until the ropes at his wrists started to draw blood. 

“You won’t get away with this!” he shrieked, voice going rough and vicious with panic. “You’ll be struck down! Repent! Repent or face the wrath of God for trying to enslave me!” 

But his struggles were as effective as a reed trying to stand up to a windstorm, and Michael was drug towards a set of stairs easily, the man showing no more reaction than a mocking smile. 

He was forced into the first room from the bottom of the stairs, after stumbling and being half carried down them, shoved onto his front roughly enough that the wood below him dug in painfully through his robes. The door slammed shut behind him with a sickeningly final  _ thud.  _

Forcing himself to his feet, Michael rose unsteadily. His wrists were aching, hot wetness seeping through the ropes where his skin had broken open, but he refused to stop fighting. 

The door was much too solid to break down. There were no windows in the little room. Michael was truly, truly alone. 

Surely, the Lord would save him, Michael thought. He hadn’t come so far as the chosen child just to wind up enslaved by men who knew not what child they were threatening. He’d be saved, surely, rescued from this plight. 

His father would never have allowed this. 


	5. badthingshappenbingo prompt: Tearful Smile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another badthingshappenbingo fic, and this time around, it's Henri! I feel kind of bad picking on such a sweet kid, but his story has sooooo much potential for pain >:3c Anyway, warnings for this chapter include implied rape, child abuse, and just, _Hugo_. Nothing explicit happens, but it's just kinda generally creepy, if that makes sense???

Henri had thought he’d grown stronger in the months they’d been on the road. His hands had become calloused and rough, smooth skin long gone. Walking for a day no longer left him heaving for breath. He could ignore the ache in his joints after just a few hours of training. 

It had been hard, it had hurt more than Henri knew anything could, but for just a little while, he’d thought he’d become a true knight. 

Nicolas’ words had cut deep. 

In the end, he was nothing but a coward, nothing but the crybaby everyone had always told him he was. Henri couldn’t fight in a crisis, couldn’t risk his life to defend the Crusade like everyone else. 

He was the  _ bad  _ one, spoiled by his own lack of bravery, and with no strength to make up for it, it was no wonder that he was shunned. 

The disappointment in Nicolas’ eyes had crushed Henri to the core. He’d done everything he could, fought harder to be strong than he ever knew he’d been capable of, and  _ it still wasn’t enough.  _ He was still the weak child who never belonged in the place of a knight. 

Facing Hugo himself had been a last resort, the only thing Henri could possibly think of that would earn him back any kind of favor with the others. Maybe Nicolas would forgive him if he brought Lillian back, he’d thought. 

Hugo’s hand had closed around his shoulder, huge and powerful, and Henri had known then and there that he’d made a mistake. 

With a voice as smooth as silk, Hugo had pulled Henri with him, guiding him deeper into the castle as Guillaume and Pierre cackled, Lillian looking on with something unreadable. Not too long ago, these boys had been his friends, and that alone made Henri’s chest ache with regret. 

Wherever they’d all gone wrong, Henri wished time could turn back. 

There were servants standing at the door, big, strong men who Henri would be no match for. Hugo himself was pure muscle, and as he began to tug off his robes, Henri’s lungs began to freeze up with fear. 

Hugo was bare from the chest down. He leaned in close to Henri, cupping his cheek with one massive hand. 

“How pretty. . .” he murmured, and Henri felt sick. “You always have been my favorite of the Children’s Crusade, sweet boy.” His thumb stroked over Henri’s face, and Henri fought the urge to pull away, to lash out, to do anything but just  _ stand there  _ and accept what was happening. 

The thumb slid to his lips, brushing over the soft skin and pushing in, forcing himself inside of Henri’s mouth. It was sickening, and Henri gagged, panic filling him all the more when that only made Hugo smile. 

He tried desperately to think of what Nicolas would do, what Guy would do, what anyone stronger and braver and better than him would do to face this, but all his mind supplied was to  _ run.  _ It wasn’t possible. Hugo’s other hand was on his shoulder, squeezing tight and beginning to undo his Children’s Crusade robes, and Henri knew he couldn’t get away. 

His shoulders were bared, then his arms, then his chest, cool air wrapping around him and digging in its claws. 

Hugo leaned in. He pressed his lips to Henri’s neck, just below his ear, and breathed warm air against Henri’s skin, making him shiver in terror. Henri fought the urge to cry, eyes stinging and starting to go hot. 

He couldn’t cry here. He couldn’t look pathetic in front of this man. Of all the times he had to be  _ brave,  _ this was the most important. 

A hand ran down his back, huge and warm, and Henri felt the tears overflow. A terrified sniffle escaped him before he could stop himself, but, the moment he saw Hugo’s satisfied smirk, something in him snapped. 

No knight would ever allow themself to be treated like this. 

Leaning forward, Henri tucked his head in close to Hugo’s face. It felt much, much too close, and every instinct was screaming at him to pull away, but Hugo whispered something about his pretty boy finally coming around and  _ appreciating  _ him, and Henri knew he had to fight. 

Abruptly, he sank his teeth into Hugo’s ear, pulling back on the one vulnerable spot he knew he could reach. 

Hugo screamed in rage, swiping at Henri with one arm. The move was sloppy, though, compared to how Guy fought, and Henri dodged with ease. Growling, Hugo jerked forwards, as if to grab him, and once again, Henri pulled back just in time, something like hope filling him at the sight of blood running down Hugo’s cheek from where he’d wounded the man. 

Maybe he could do this. Maybe he’d be able to escape, prove to Nicolas that he could be brave when a knight should be. 

The next few moments were much the same, Henri’s instincts moving him away from Hugo’s every lunge, but all too soon, there was brick against his back and servants pouring into the room, called by Hugo’s shouts. 

Whatever hope Henri had felt dropped like a stone. 

Hugo grabbed him by the neck when Henri couldn’t dodge anymore, shoved him back against the stone with enough force to scrape his back raw. Henri yelped, struggling, but Hugo’s grip was far too strong. 

“You’re all dismissed,” Hugo growled, voice low and furious. “I’ll take care of this one  _ by myself. _ ” 

The room was soon empty, and when Henri met Hugo’s eyes, they were cold and vicious, rage pouring off of him. He looked like he wanted Henri dead, like he wanted to choke the life out of him himself, and as blood dripped from his mangled ear, Henri, shockingly, felt nothing but pride. 

He’d done it. He’d fought back, like a true knight would. Nicolas would have to be proud of him now, Henri thought. 

Hugo drug Henri over to the bed by his throat, tore his remaining robes off in one rough motion, and leaned over him with an expression like the wolf that had just caught the rabbit. 

Henri smiled though the tears spilling down his face. 


	6. badthingshappenbingo prompt: Strapped to an Operating Table

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am back! And still finishing up those bingo prompts -3- This fic kind of doubles as the start of a new series, and it will also be posted as part of another work. Warnings this time include blood, gore, harm to a child (Guy is like 7or 8 here), implied child abuse, and medieval surgery. Nothing excessively grotesque, but still kind of messy.

Guy is young, not sure how old, and he’s still the smallest member of the bandit group that amounts to his family. He’s a child, well-under half the size of any of the adults, but he’s fast and vicious, and it’s not like anyone ever expects a child to know to go for the throat anyway. 

He’s useful enough that he’s still worth being another mouth to feed, and even though the adults kick him around a lot, he’s always been certain that when he gets bigger, stronger, he’ll be even better at earning his keep.

But Guy isn’t so sure of that anymore. 

He’s sitting in an alley, the body of an older teenager with a slit throat and a hacked off hand laying next to him. The boy had tried to steal the food that Guy was bringing back for his family, coming at him with a knife like he thought that a child half his size would never pose a threat. Of course, Guy had pulled his own blade on the other boy in seconds, and after a quick struggle, the bigger boy was dead. 

That in itself wasn’t so bad; Guy has killed people plenty of times before, and bringing the boy’s clothes and valuables back to the group  _ would  _ make his family happy with him. 

The problem is that Guy is bleeding. 

During the scuffle, the boy’s knife had come close to his face. In the moment, Guy hadn’t thought anything of it. The worst he’d get was a cut on his cheek or a new scar. But now that the fight was over, now that the rush of instinct that he’d been running on was starting to fade, Guy is suddenly, acutely aware that the entire right side of his face  _ hurts. _ There’s blood, a lot of it, and when Guy raises his hand to feel what could be wrong, he’s rewarded with a rush of dizzying pain and the feel of sliced open flesh. 

Half of his field of vision is blacked out, and there’s a sinking feeling in Guy’s stomach that something has gone very, very wrong. He’s already starting to feel dizzy, like he’s losing too much blood. 

Quickly, Guy gathers his attacker’s valuables. He scurries back to his family’s camp with his whole head throbbing, blood dripping down his chin. 

. . . 

“Yep, that’s gotta come out,” Ames, the one who knows the most about wounds and how to fix them, says. Guy’s stomach sinks to his feet. “Ya’ done fucked up there, kid. That eye’s good an’ sliced open.”

A couple of the other men laugh, but soon go back to their business, satisfied with knowing just how their youngest member failed. Ames sighs, heavily, and takes Guy by the collar, dragging him towards his tent. Guy feels a bit like he’s going to vomit. The pain around his head has intensified to a stabbing throb. He doesn’t resist. 

In Ames’s tent, the older man shoves Guy roughly to the floor, then turns and begins to dig through his things. Guy tries not to curl in on himself and try to hide. He feels small and scared, and hates every second of it.

Ames gathers a few leather straps, a knife, a needle and thread, and a bottle of his strong alcohol, which he hands to Guy. 

“Alright, kid,” he says, sounding only mildly annoyed. “Take a few big drinks of that. It won’t take too much, ‘cause you’re so small, so don’ waste it.” Guy obeys. The alcohol, stronger than what he’s used to, burns all the way down his throat, settling in his stomach with a dizzy rush of heat. 

From there, Ames sets to work tying him down. He binds Guy’s hands, knots the makeshift restraints to the solid post holding up his tent. Even though Guy is small, and probably couldn’t kick Ames off of him if he tried, he gives Guy the dignity of tying his ankles too, as if he’s strong enough to need it. Finally, he knots a strap of leather across Guy’s mouth, tight enough to gag his screams and keep him from breaking his teeth. 

Guy has started shaking by now, even as the haze of strong drink is making the world go fuzzy and bright. Ames gets his knife, and Guy tries to imagine that he won’t be too useless with only one eye. 

The first cut hurts worse than anything Guy’s felt in a while. He’s become fairly accustomed to wounds, but this is  _ different.  _ He feels searing pain, a thick gush of liquid, and he’s left howling into his gag, body bucking out of his control to try to get away from the pain. 

Ames keeps him held down with a knee over his chest, crushing the breath out of Guy so he can barely scream. 

Guy can’t imagine how anyone could cut out someone’s eye without doing more harm than good, but Ames’s hands are steady and slow, scooping out the ruined flesh with the flat of his blade even as the child underneath him writhes and sobs. The pain builds and builds, stabbing through Guy’s skull like a stake.

Just when Guy thinks it couldn’t get any worse, Ames gets the needle. With what Guy hopes is all of his bad eye cut out, the older man leans in to start sewing up the wound. Every pass of the needle  _ burns,  _ rough thread scraping against nerves that were never meant to be touched. Guy screams until his lungs start to burn, tears streaming from his good eye. He knows,  _ knows  _ that Ames is being gentle, that this could hurt worlds more if he wasn’t quite so careful. Even so, he feels close to throwing up. 

And then, Ames is done. Muttering what almost sounds like an apology, he grabs the rest of his alcohol, and just as Guy thinks that this might all be over, Ames upends the flask over his eye. 

Guy  _ screeches,  _ teeth sinking into the leather across his mouth hard enough that his jaw aches. 

For half a moment, he’s certain that there’s fire in his eye. 

But then the pain starts to ebb. Then Ames unties him, strong hands deftly un-knotting the leather around his wrists. Guy’s head spins, and he wonders if he’s going to pass out. 

“Alright, we’re done here. You’ll keep that clean, ya’ hear? The stitches will come out in a few weeks, but we don’t want no dirt in that kind a’ wound.” Guy swallows hard, nods, ignoring the way the world spins. 

Ames sighs again, running a bloody hand through his hair. 

“You ain’t gonna be going anywhere for a while. Sleep here, and we’ll see if ya’ can walk in the morning. You’re drunk off your ass, kid.”

Guy thinks he agrees, but his mouth won’t quite work to tell Ames that. He’s shaking, hard, but he’s  _ alive.  _ As long as he can recover from this quick, as long as missing an eye doesn’t make him useless, his family won’t care. None of them are very pretty anyway, and wounds like this are far from uncommon. ...Not so much on kids Guy’s age. 

His head is still throbbing, eye a steady burn, pounding in time with his heartbeat, but Guy finds sleep quickly. 


	7. badthingshappenbingo prompt: Chronic Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This time, Michael! Warnings for this chapter include religious themes and child abuse. There's nothing too terrible, but the whole atmosphere is rather creepy. Michael is one delusional kid, and the Church is doing nothing to help that...

In spring, when the air was just starting to turn clear and warm again, there was always work to be done. Michael, of course, was among the most devoted to their holy mission. As faithful as any adult, he carried out his duties with pride, dedicated to making sure every chore was  _ perfect.  _

His father was always so pleased when Michael did his work well, it hadn’t taken long at all for him to come to love even the hardest tasks.

But Michael was a small child. Even for his age, he was weaker and more frail. At ten years of age, he barely reached his father’s chest. Michael was never one to complain about the body the Lord had given him, but being well under half the size of any of the other members of the Church meant that doing the same work as them was difficult. 

As soon as he was physically able, at an age so young Michael barely recalled it, he’d started to perform the same chores as the adults. The Lord would never look fondly upon a lazy boy, after all, and even though Michael remembers little but an aching body from his childhood, he’s grateful that his father cared enough to teach him the true way to please God. As the chosen child, no less would suffice. 

Today, Michael’s assignment was to scrub the secondary chapel’s floor– every inch of it, before the evening meal. 

The chapel was a massive, ornate building that saw endless foot-traffic. Its floor was more that ten times that of a middle-class home, tiled in brilliant colors and ornate patterns. The entire building was a glorious tribute to God, and Michael couldn’t have been more honored to clean it. 

Michael had already been on his knees since sunrise, armed with a bucket of harsh, soapy water and as much determination as he could muster. He’d been up since hours before dawn, interrupting his work only for prayer. His father had insisted that he go without bread that day, so that he could focus himself entirely on his work, and Michael couldn’t have agreed more. Even though his flesh was weak, demanding food even after a mere few hours of work, Michael’s heart was stronger. 

This was the kind of thing he’d been doing for  _ years,  _ and the familiar rhythm of carrying water and scrubbing the tile until it shined was almost comforting. It felt  _ right  _ to spend his day so close to the Lord. 

It didn’t matter a bit that Michael’s hands were beginning to bleed, rubbed red and raw from the rough cloth and harsh soap. Any pain was simply a sign that he was properly devoting himself to God, suffering as he should to remind himself of every sacrifice the Lord’s son had made for him. 

His knees had an awful ache in them, as if the bone itself was bruised, Michael’s throat burned from the sting of soap in the air, and his back was beginning to protest being bent over for quite so long. It was exactly as it should be. Michael’s heart almost sang at the thought of how proud his father would be, pleased with a child who would go to any lengths to accomplish his duties. 

This, this was what he was made for. Michael’s whole life had been spent in service of the Lord, and nothing suited the chosen child more than sacrificing every part of himself for God to use. Like this, he was holy. Like this, he could devote himself in a way that few men were able to. Michael’s dedication went far beyond the average man, of course. 

All too soon, the courtyard bells began to ring, signaling that it was time for afternoon prayer. 

Michael stood, quickly put away his supplies where no one would be troubled by them, and rushed off towards the main church. The next couple hours would be spent in prayer and thankfulness, reading Psalms and reciting verse, praising the Lord with every word.

And then, Michael saw his father, on his own way to prayer. 

_ Papa,  _ Michael almost called, catching himself at the last second. So caught up in his work, he’d been imagining his father praising him for so long that the forbidden word almost slipped out. Michael quickly bit his lip, a silent punishment for coming so close to troubling his father. 

“Father Abbot,” he said instead, keeping his tone measured and respectful, “Good day to you. I am well on my way to finishing the job you assigned to me, and all is going well.”

Michael’s father turned his head, face remaining neutral even at the sight of his son. Michael’s chest swelled with pride. His father was such a dutiful man than even his own flesh and blood didn’t sway his composure. How pleased the Lord must be with such a loyal follower. 

“Ah, good day, Michael. I am pleased to hear that. Do remember, you are expected to be finished before the evening meal. You’ll be the one cleaning up tonight, so do not dally,” his father instructed, as calm as ever. 

So it was to be one of those days, then. If Michael was to arrive in time to clean, it would mean that he wasn’t eating tonight. Most likely, that would mean a night spent in prayer, reciting verses by candlelight until the new dawn broke. How wonderful. Not only would he be allowed to service the older monks, he’d spend the night in praise of God. 

“Yes, Father Abbot,” Michael replied, barely keeping himself from smiling. 

As Michael kneeled for prayer, his body protested, aching through every part of him. Without so much as a flinch, Michael continued his assigned verse. He was used to this much. The pain of a mere day’s cleaning wouldn’t impede his ability to be of service. This was all part of the Lord’s plan, and Michael would never complain. 

The chosen child would never be anything less than perfect. 


	8. badthingshappenbingo prompt: Outnumbered in a Fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much to say this time, other than that warnings include implied character death (mostly if you've read the manga...), and minor violence. And Hugo. Anytime Hugo appears is a warning. -3-

Ever since Hugo’s betrayal, nothing had gone right. 

The lambs, so many kids who didn’t understand, were going hungry, exhausted by a day’s march, and without a single village to welcome them. 

Luc set his jaw every time the kids cried for a hot meal, a place to rest that wasn’t a meager tent set up in a cold field. He put on a smile anyway. He let his face light up, slipping into the role he’d always known. The kids almost smiled when he and Marc told their jokes, put on silly shows to distract them from the pain of aching feet and empty bellies. 

On long marches, Luc never quit smiling. He let his laugh light up the world for the kids, played the part of the adult certain that everything would turn out alright. He never let it show how worried he was, even to Marc or Nicolas. Luc had always been the happy one, the one who could smile through anything, and if he let that slip now, it would be a sign to all of them that everything truly was falling apart from underneath them. 

But it wasn’t enough. Luc knew as well as anyone that they couldn’t keep going like this. With so many mouths to feed, and so few people who were willing to help, the Children’s Crusade was  _ doomed.  _

It was all Hugo’s fault. Luc, like any of the boys, had been so  _ excited  _ to meet a real knight. Now he knew that even knights were useless when all they thought of was money and glory. 

He’d lost his temper, once, when it first sunk in that they’d been betrayed. It was the first time in years Luc had let his anger show, and even though he put on a smile just as quickly afterwards, pretending like it would all be okay in the end, it was much too late to pretend. 

The lot of them were terrified, Luc knew. All the had now were a few swords, the money they’d accumulated, and the hope of nearly a hundred boys resting on their shoulders. 

They’d all imagined that they’d reach Jerusalem in no time, but they’d been walking for weeks, and the world appeared bigger than ever. Luc himself had never been out of the village, and he’d never imagined that there could be this  _ much  _ in France alone. 

But someone like him couldn’t lose hope. The lambs were counting on his smile, and the only thing Luc could do to keep this Crusade together was keep smiling, no matter what terrors befell them. 

For the sake of his friends, for every lamb, he would be brave. 

The forest appeared before them, more trees that Luc had ever seen in one place. A childish part of him wanted to stop and admire the view, delight in one of the rare moments of genuine joy he was finding on this Crusade, but there was little time. Hugo appeared in moments, decked out in all-but-stolen finery, proclaiming woe to the Children’s Crusade should they dare enter the forest without his protection. Luc grit his teeth at the words, half wishing he could put his sword through Hugo himself. 

Nicolas bit back the words that they were all thinking, and Hugo’s laugh echoed through the trees. He spoke of a castle, smiled like he knew something that the boys never would, and even Etienne’s face began to twist. Frustration sung through Luc’s veins. No matter what he did, there was little one boy could do to protect nearly a hundred. 

In the hopes that Etienne’s miracles would protect them, they entered the forest. Luc imagined even demons cowering before the light of their leader, and felt almost like he could believe it. 

He thought of Etienne, who had the most faith of all of them, and knew that they’d be safe somehow,  _ somehow.  _

Marc worried, Henri cried, and Luc put on a smile through it all. He was the oldest. He could be brave. Even as his own heart was pounding in his chest, he wouldn’t let his friends be afraid. If any demons appeared, Luc thought, he could fight them off with his bare hands if it meant keeping the people he loved safe. He  _ would  _ keep them all safe. 

Just as Luc was starting to think that they would really be safe Etienne’s soft voice spoke a moment of fear. Luc’s chest went tight, and then– then, the demons were upon them. 

Hoofbeats thundered through the forest. Men, adult men, wearing foreign clothes and wielding more weapons than Luc had ever seen in one place. Lambs cried, scattered. Red spattered through the air. A boy near Luc was suddenly no more than an empty neck. Screams filled the air, and for a terrifying instant, Luc couldn’t bring himself to move. 

And then, Nicolas was shouting at him. Luc snapped back to attention, to the reality around him, and he ran. 

Etienne grabbed his sleeve, terrified eyes as brilliant as any sky. Luc thought, with all of his being that he would protect this person even if it cost him his life _. _

Hurting all the while, Luc knocked Etienne out, gritting his teeth and reassuring himself that the boy would wake up safe and sound when everything was over. It would be alright. It had to be. Luc would fight and smile and protect every last one of them until it was. 

Luc stood between the demons and the only hope of the Crusade. His sword shook in his hands as Luc trembled before the reality that he was truly going to hurt someone. It was alright. These demons were what he has to defeat to protect everyone. He could do it. He was a knight. He was  _ brave.  _ For Etienne, for Marc, for every child who placed their faith in him, he would be brave enough to keep them safe. 

The demons closed in, more of them than Luc could count. 

He held his sword steady, and clung to the faith that he would win. 


	9. badthingshappenbingo prompt: Sadistic Choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one turned out to be a major exploration of Lillian's character- his mentality, his relationship with his brother, the way he views the people around him... just a lot of Lillian development. I'm really liking how I explored a fairly minor character, and I hope I get to write more for him soon!
> 
> Warnings this time include implied rape/non-con, implied child abuse, unhealthy relationships/coping mechanisms, mentions of slavery, and, well, Hugo. Again. Read safely!

All Lillian had ever wanted was to be different than his brother. Their sameness had been the cause of every woe they’d ever had. If they’d never been born as twins, if Lillian hadn’t been born at all, then–, then– 

Then mother would still be alive. 

Laurent had done nothing but be the protector for as long as Lillian could remember; sacrificing his body and mind all for Lillian’s sake. There was nothing Laurent wouldn’t do to keep his little brother safe, and the sheer guilt of always being the one depending on someone else to survive, always taking and taking and never standing on his own, was what had chewed Lillian up from the inside out. 

When Lillian thought of himself, small and weak and sickly, always the one to drag the two of them down, he couldn’t take it. If Laurent was on his own, he’d be  _ fine.  _ He only suffered because Lillian couldn’t take care of himself well enough to be trusted to live on his own. 

Everyone in the village considered the same as one person. It was never Laurent and Lillian. It was always Laurent  _ and  _ Lillian, and Lillian himself could barely breathe under the guilt that it was  _ him  _ keeping his brother down. As long as he was too weak, neither of them would be able to live happily. Laurent would always be stuck protecting him. 

So Lillian had set off on his own. He’d made friends with the manor lords’ boys, slipping into the familiar rhythm of following someone else’s lead. It was easy to simply do what someone else wanted. 

Pretending to be one of them earned Lillian the first friendship he’d ever had outside of his brother.

And sure, Guillaume and Pierre treated him like their follower. Sure, they pushed him into doing things that even Lillian knew in the back of his mind were wrong. But it was alright. It had to be. Lillian would never learn to stand on his own if he didn’t do this. He just had to face it. 

Then, there was Hugo. 

At first, Lillian had tried to pretend like it would all be okay. Hugo was an adult, a knight, someone above all of them. It was the first time an adult had looked at him with anything other than scorn, and Lillian relished in it. For a few precious moments, he’d felt like he could be more than the useless twin, the second best brother to someone stronger than him. 

It had happened faster than Lillian could stop. What Hugo did to the three of them was far from unfamiliar– men in small villages got  _ frustrated,  _ and when they did, unwanted children were easy targets. 

That didn’t make it hurt any less. Lillian didn’t think he’d ever been quite so scared as when Hugo was over him, in the brief moment before his entire world turned to a sickeningly familiar pain. He’d thought, for just a moment, that trusting Hugo was the worst mistake he’d ever made. 

But then, it was over, and Hugo was smiling again. Hugo was praising them all for their dedication, and even as his aching body protested every second, Lillian’s heart soared. 

That was it. He’d done it. A few minutes of pain, and now, he would be able to rise above anything he’d ever dreamed. 

So Lillian put on a smile. Lillian followed Guillaume and Pierre, who didn’t appear to so much as understand what had happened to them. The two of them were naive, fragile somehow in a way Lillian had never thought to see them. It clashed horribly with the image of them Lillian had been cultivating, and for the first time since he’d decided to become his own man, Lillian thought that maybe he’d been putting his faith on  _ children. _

And just when Lillian had started to think that things could go back to normal, that he’d done what he had to to make himself strong, Hugo called him to his personal chamber once again. 

Lillian’s stomach sunk down to his feet at the servant’s words, bile rising in his throat. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t happen again. He’d survived it once but there was no way he could keep himself together and suffer through that kind of pain a second time. 

Hugo’s words weren’t what he’d expected. 

“S-Slaves?” His head felt like it was freezing over, falling apart, and for all he’d convinced himself he was strong, Lillian didn’t know how to stop it. 

“That’s right, boy. You’re aware how your little Crusade has… taxed me. I have to make back my losses somehow, and this is merely the simplest method. You don’t care for those foolish children, do you? I had believed that you had become a  _ knight. _ ” Hugo’s smile stretched across his face, not quite reaching his eyes. Lillian thought, for a second, that he might just be sick then and there. Only terror kept the bile down. 

“So,” Hugo continued, “about your brother. I have a deal for you, and you’d be smart to listen. All you have to do is convince the children that joining me is a better choice than rotting in the wilderness. Bring as many of them as possible to my castle, and if your results are satisfactory…

“Your brother will be spared.”

“B-But, I d-don’t– I don’t know  _ how. _ ” Lillian’s voice sounded pathetic, weak to even his own ears, nothing like knight he was supposed to be.

“Nonsense, boy! You were one of them! Simply spread the word of how much better life is in my castle. You want your brother to be safe, don’t you? All you have to do is deliver a few stupid children to me, and you can be with him again. I’ll even give him a place in my castle beside you!”

Lillian was sure he couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t like any of the lambs had ever been to close to him, but the thought– the thought of delivering innocent children into Hugo’s hands…

It was for Laurent. 

If Lillian did this one, simple thing, Laurent would be safe. Hugo would gather the children no matter what Lillian did, and if anything, letting them come of their own free will instead of being rounded up and forced was probably the kinder choice. He could do it. He  _ had  _ to do it. 

He was a knight now, Lillian reminded himself. He was the strong one. It was all up to him to protect the brother who’d always saved him. 

This time, he’d be the strong one. 


	10. badthingshappenbingo prompt: Standing Cuffs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, not much to say. I have only one of these bingo prompts left... but then I might start a new card :3 This was another sort of character exploration, and I put a lot of thought into Guillaume's mindset. 
> 
> Warnings for this chapter include child abuse, beating, and minor blood. Nothing too serious, just typical discipline for medieval times.

_ I’m the best,  _ Guillaume thinks. He’s eleven years old, and there’s one person in the world who can drag him down. His father is as good as a god, but everyone else are servants and peasants, lower than the dirt beneath his feet. He’s a king of a boy, the manor lord’s son. All the world he knows is his village, and within the tiny town, he’s unstoppable. 

Guillaume never hesitates to show the peasants who’s in charge. He’s been told for as long as he can remember that he’s on top, that his money means he can do whatever he wants, and he uses it. 

The other boys in the village cower when he comes near. No one knows what the manor lord’s son will do next. Guillaume is on top of the world when he steps on someone else, and for the few moments that someone lower looks at him with fear, he’s unstoppable. 

But then, Guillaume takes one step too far out of line. 

What he does is fine, so long as his father doesn’t care. A boy as wealthy as him mistreating the lower class is normal. Back-talking a man who Guillaume had  _ no idea  _ was an old friend of his father’s visiting town is inexcusable. From the moment his father grabs him by the ear, yelling too close to his face and dragging him away like livestock, Guillaume’s heart sinks down past the stones of the floor. 

His father calls a quick apology to his friend, and then Guillaume is pulled away, a hand in his hair making sure he moves. 

“Stupid boy!” his father shouts, yanking him outside the house, towards the back yard, and Guillaume wants to  _ cry.  _ He knows what’s coming. It’s so rare, so rare that he’s anything other than the perfect son of the manor lord, and he can barely think past his heart thundering in his chest like hoofbeats. “You dumbass kid, don’t you know when to keep your mouth shut? You’re making  _ me _ look bad here!”

Guillaume is shoved against a familiar pole, shared by his and Pierre’s father. His hands are wrenched above his head before he can do any more than squeak, knotted with rope. His father smacks him over the head for seemingly no reason but to make him flinch in terror. 

He’s shaking, Guillaume notes with nausea rising in his throat. His whole body is shuddering like some kind of dumb kid. He hears the switch before he sees it, and almost retches then and there. 

“You’re not going to be able to move, boy,” his father says, voice low and dangerous. “I’ll make sure that you don’t embarrass me again.”

And Guillaume is a  _ man.  _ He’s eleven years old, and he’s unstoppable. If this is what his father, the one person to stand above him, thinks is right, then, of course, he’ll agree. It’s because he has to make them look good, Guillaume thinks. His father would never do this if his friend wasn’t there. He’s just making sure that everyone knows how great he is. 

The first hit of the switch  _ burns.  _ A little whimper, more vulnerable that Guillaume would ever admit came out of him, slips out. He’s already biting his lip, little body tensing up for the next strike. 

Guillaume never feels smaller than when his father beats him. He knows that he’s small, that his body has always been weak, but feeling the brunt of an adult man’s strength never fails to make him feel like little more than a child. No matter how old he gets,  _ nothing  _ scares him like these moments when the man he so idolizes is angry. 

The switch rains down hits one after another. Guillaume feels his skin start to break a few minutes it, feels tears streaking down his face moments after. It’s a good thing his father cuffed him, he thinks. His body is bucking out of his control, trying to to squirm away from the pain. 

_ Pathetic,  _ Guillaume thinks, knowing all the while how his father must be seeing him, what a failure he must seem.

His father gets bored of the switch eventually, when Guillaume is bruised and bloody and aching all over. He already probably couldn’t walk. Seconds later, there’s a hand in his hair and a slap to his face so hard that his head swings to the side. Guillaume feels his hair rip out of his scalp, and almost gags. His father hits him again, hard enough that he can feel it in his teeth, and Guillaume has to bite his lip to keep from begging. 

His vision is starting to go fuzzy around the edges, pain and stress making him tremble all the harder. There’s blood dripping down his back and running down his chin, his scalp feels like it’s on fire, and Guillaume wants nothing more than to break down and  _ cry.  _

He’s fine, he tells himself, even as his weight sags against the cuffs. He’ll be fine. This is just his father’s way of showing his friend how strong he is. It’s not Guillaume’s fault that he’s caught up in it. 

It’s the job of the manor lord to show his strength. His father tugs the knots free, and Guillaume falls. His legs won’t hold him up, his vision is blurry from tears, and there’s snot and blood dripping down his bruised, aching face. He doesn’t have the strength to look up, and lays, curled on the ground, chest heaving with the sobs he can never let his father see. 

This is fine, Guillaume thinks. He won’t hurt forever. 

As soon as he stands up and shows he’s tough, his father will be right back to calling him his beloved son.

“Useless brat…” he hears his father muttering, and almost retches. “Get up, stupid! Get inside and clean yourself up. I can’t have you looking bad in front of the town!” With one last kick to his side, making Guillaume’s insides twist, his father is gone, back inside like nothing happened. 

It’s fine. It has to be. He didn’t do anything wrong. He’s the manor lord’s son, and the only person that could ever lay a hand on him is his father. Adults always decide who deserves to suffer, Guillaume thinks, and  _ wants  _ with every inch of his aching body to be the one who gets to choose which members of the useless world get to grovel before him. 

Guillaume picks himself up off the ground, and goes inside. 


End file.
